


Still Waters

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4016086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU in which Porthos discovers that his boss, Mr Lafere, isn't quite as strait-laced as he'd thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suzie_Shooter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/gifts).



Porthos grumbled softly to himself, staring down at the technical specifications on the contract and wondering why his boss hadn't given this particular task to someone with a B.Sc. He was an English major who, under normal circumstances, knew thousands of words and their precise meanings, but this document in front of him was nothing short of techno-babble.

"Mr Lafere," he said in a gruff voice without needing to look up, aware of his boss's presence from the uncomfortable atmosphere in the room. "Can I borrow you for a minute?"

Oliver Lafere was a chill wind from the north, ex-military with the kind of presence that had the entire office wondering how many people he had killed in Afghanistan, and whether he was looking to expand the death list.

"What?" The man wheeled around and glared at him. "I have a meeting with Brigadier Jefferies."

"Could you look this over for me?" Porthos shoved the draft contract at the man, annoyed at his own ineptitude. "I want to make sure I'm on the right track."

Lafere scrutinised each page. "It's fine. Have more faith in yourself," he said passing it back with a slight tilt of the head -- the only gesture of approval in his repertoire and considered to be high praise indeed by his subordinates.

Porthos nodded his thanks, noticing, with a sudden wave of intrigue, that his boss was sporting the remnants of a black eye. He wondered which member of staff finally had enough of the refrigerator and plucked up the courage to deck him one.

Once Lafere had left the floor, the whole office heaved a collective sigh of relief and relaxed. Coffees were made and biscuits passed around, as everyone settled down to the serious topic of how to enjoy the upcoming bank holiday weekend. 

Porthos leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head and listening to the chatter, relishing the idea of an extra night out, combined with that hedonistic pleasure of lying in bed until noon for three days in a row. It was going to be good; his flatmate, Aramis, always knew which clubs were in season and was bound to have the skinny on a few spectacular parties. He was an events organiser and so good at his job that the events pretty much organised themselves.

"What about you, Porthos?" asked d'Artagnan, the office whiz kid, fresh out of LSE with a first in business management and enough rabid self confidence to stand a good chance of leapfrogging Lafere on his way up the ladder. "What crazy stuff are you up to?"

"Dunno," said Porthos, wondering whether he’d ever develop the same kind of ambition as his young colleague. Right now, he was pay cheque driven rather than career orientated. "I'll tell you Tuesday," he added with a wink. It was bound to be a blast and that was all that mattered. "You doing anything special?"

D'Artagnan preened visibly. "I'm taking Constance to Paris," he said.

"Result!" Porthos fist bumped him. D'Artagnan had been chasing the pretty office manager since the day he arrived at N-TEQ. "You took my advice and used the big guns on her then? A dirty weekend in France will never fail to impress."

"A weekend of sightseeing and romantic dinners most likely." D'Artagnan grinned. "But I'm keeping my fingers crossed for the rest." 

Staring idly out of the window, Porthos noticed Oliver Lafere jumping into his beaten up Porsche and careering out of the car park like a maniac. He supposed, without an awful lot of interest, that the meeting with Jefferies must be at the nearby army base, but then the brigadier put paid to that idea, striding through the office with his hand raised in a general salute of welcome. 

So the boss was telling porky pies and bunking off early? This, combined with the black eye, _did_ grab Porthos' attention. He was probably scampering back to his executive estate in the suburbs in order to have a quick shag with one of the neighbours before her husband arrived home. It was inevitably going to be something boring like that. He imagined Lafere drilling some yummy mummy into her granite worktop with military precision and felt amused, repulsed and, it had to be said, slightly turned on by the idea.

At five o'clock the office was filled with the sound of chair castors wheeling across laminate flooring. Porthos won the race to escape the boredom of work and, checking his watch, he charged off in the direction of the main road. He'd miss the next train by a minute or so, but was just in time for the bus. Oyster card at the ready, he bounced down the aisle and actually found a seat, looking around in astonishment at all the happy faces. This was London. People didn't smile in the capital. What _was_ it about a free day off that put the whole city in a good mood?

Picking up a few beers from the Co-op on the way, Porthos opened the door to the flat, surprised to find Aramis home already.

"You're skiving just like my boss," he laughed, chucking Aramis a can of cheap and cheerful lager.

Aramis caught it deftly. "The engagement party of the century's been cancelled," he said, leaning back in his chair and popping the ring pull.

Porthos eyes widened. "Don’t tell me Richelieu found out you've been knobbing Adele behind his back?"

Aramis shook his head. "Not if the large compensatory bank transfer to my account is anything to go by." He chuckled. "Talk about getting paid for services rendered."

"You're a dirty git," said Porthos, patting him on the shoulder in approval and leaning over to see what he'd been looking at on the computer. "Fuck me, that party's a bit out of hand."

"You're telling me," said Aramis. "I've got one more do to arrange for this bunch of freaks next weekend and then I've had it with them." He scrolled through scenes of debauchery. "They're into some crazy shit."

"Hang on a sec; go back one," said Porthos, spotting something strange and staring at the photograph in shock when Aramis returned to the previous image as requested. "Fuck!" he exclaimed in astonishment, pointing at the face of Lafere, unshaven and crumpled, clearly drunk and suffering from a post cocaine low by the look of things. "That's my fucking boss."

" _Athos_ is your cold fish at work?" Aramis spluttered with laughter. "But the man's a raving lunatic."

"What d'you mean?" asked Porthos in confusion. "That's Mr Lafere." The bloke must have a double. It was the only explanation and if it wasn't for the cleft lip and black eye, he'd be convinced by it. Lafere was to party animal as the Arctic was to the Antarctic -- the complete polar opposite.

"Nope," said Aramis, shaking his head. "That's Lord Olivier de la Fère, eighth Viscount of Pinon. He goes by the name of Athos and is permanently pissed and usually to be found either buried in a body, snorting blow like it's going out of fashion, or doing something incredibly dangerous for kicks." Aramis moved on through the images to prove his point. "The only reason he stays out of trouble is because his old CO is now a senior minister."

Porthos stared at the pictorial evidence set out before him, increasingly explicit and incredible, in the truest sense of the word. Without doubt, it was Oliver Lafere, rampantly sexual, unfussy as to the gender of his partners and a thousand percent more fascinating than he had been this afternoon.

"This party you're organising for them next week," he said, with a sneaky grin. "I don't suppose you can get me an invite?"

" _Porthos_." Aramis looked around at him. "I told you they're too fucked up even for me. What do you want with the freaks?"

Porthos grinned. "You have no idea what Lafere's like at work," he said. "He's a Frost Giant. I need to see him turn into Loki at the weekend." He kissed the top of Aramis' head. "Go on, mate, _please_."

Aramis folded his arms. "I can't get you an invitation," he said. "They're a close knit bunch. They've all got titles and have known each other for years, but I can get you in, as long as you don't mind being staff."

"All the better to spy on him," said Porthos, imagining the look on Lafere's face when he discovered a work colleague serving drinks to him at his own private orgy. "I'll be sober and smug. He'll be pissed and excruciatingly embarrassed." He rubbed his hands together with glee. “It’ll be brilliant.”

"One thing, Porthos," warned Aramis. "A lot of high roller gambling goes on at these parties, so whatever happens, please don't get lured to the tables."

It was a sound piece of advice. Porthos did have a serious weakness for poker and a tendency to cheat when he was drunk, often ending up in all kinds of trouble because of it. On this occasion, however, he'd be taking part in a reconnaissance mission, not be on the lookout for fun. "I promise I’ll behave," he said with a fist to his heart. "Anyway, I'll be staff."

"The lines _can_ blur," said Aramis with an enigmatic smile. He loved to maintain that air of mystery, even with his best friend.

"So," said Porthos. "What’re we doing for the bank holiday, now that you’re free of Richelieu and Adele?"

"Something relaxing for a change," said Aramis. "I've got access to a client’s houseboat on one of those islands in the Thames. How about you, me, Alice and Marguerite hang out there for three days of decadence?"

"Sounds great," said Porthos. Nice weather, booze and lots of sex always made him a very happy boy.

\---

The miniature holiday turned out to be so dull that Porthos discovered he was actually looking forward to work. The island was an unlisted retirement zone and he was a long way off collecting his old age pension. He drank too much, ate too much and sex was off the cards when he spent most of the time squabbling with Alice. Both he and Aramis were relieved to be home.

"Look on the bright side. At least we found out before booking a fortnight’s holiday with them," said Aramis, handing Porthos a coffee then helping him hunt for his keys on Tuesday morning.

"You not seeing Margie again either?" asked Porthos, finally locating them and his wallet under a cushion in the living room.

Aramis yawned and stretched. "She's a lovely girl-"

"Just not for you." Porthos finished the often repeated sentence with a chuckle. "Are we _ever_ going to find partners we like for more than five minutes?" So far, Porthos' only long term relationship had been with his friends, Charon and Flea and that had become way too messy by the time it reached its sorry conclusion.

"It's not looking likely." Aramis glanced at his watch. "You're going to be late if you don't get a move on."

Porthos shrugged carelessly and opened the front door. "I've got something on the boss now," he said, his eyes lighting up with mischief. "If he messes with the bull then he'll get the horns."

On his way to the office, Porthos was brimming over with bravado, but all it took was one simple word spoken in that posh voice to have him on the verge of saluting, despite the fact that the word was nothing more than a brisk _hello_.

"Morning," he replied.

"I have some new work for you," said Lafere and Porthos smiled secretly to himself when the man leant over his shoulder to explain the tenders in detail.

I know what you get up to, he thought as his eyes shifted discreetly over Lafere, searching for evidence of wild party going. He didn’t reek of sex, drugs and rock and roll, but he did smell expensive. Nice actually, like an Atlantic sea breeze.

"Is there a problem?" asked Lafere, taking the seat next to Porthos and fixing him with that infamous cool green stare. "You appear to be suffering from a lack of concentration. In future, leave your busy weekend at home where it belongs."

Porthos frowned and reeled every word back to Lafere. "My weekend was pretty chilled out," he said, raising his eyebrows. "How about yours?"

"Likewise." The boss was as icy as always. "So it seems we can both get on with our work without distraction."

\---

Distraction turned out to be a problem. Over the course of the week Porthos caught himself, all too often, glancing surreptitiously at Oliver Lafere. The old saying specified that it was _always the quiet ones_ , but who'd've imagined this strict former army officer, with his expensive suits and boyish looks, would have been hiding such a free spirit under the stone façade. Aramis wasn't helping matters, regaling Porthos with endless stories of Lafere and his cronies, who made the England rugby team seem like a bunch of nuns.

Part of him certain that it must be a put up job, Porthos was still struggling to believe what he'd seen in the photographs. Always prone to suffering from obsessions, he was counting down the days, desperate to catch Lafere’s alter ego, Athos, in action. This one was worse than usual; Athos was alive in his head, his hair mussed, his eyes unfocused as he sprawled in between a half naked couple on the couch and, try as hard as he might, Porthos could not equate him with the dreary Oliver Lafere.

On the Friday afternoon, trying to temper his excitement and distract himself from his distraction, Porthos caught d’Artagnan whistling the soundtrack to Amelie and aimed a broad grin his way. “You got lucky in Paris, I take it, kiddo.”

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” said d’Artagnan. “Damn the boss for sending me straight to the Liverpool office on Tuesday. I've only just got back.” He frowned at Lafere’s immaculate silhouette hidden behind a pane of frosted glass. “He hasn't a romantic bone in his body.”

Porthos shrugged his shoulders, replaying some of those erotic images from the folder. “Work is work,” he said taking an unusually defensive position. He was usually the first to pick fault with Lafere.

D'Artagnan cocked his head to one side. “Talking of romance, I notice you’ve been in a world of your own,” he said, perching on the corner of Porthos’ desk. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“No one,” said Porthos, on the defensive again. “I’ve got stuff on my mind, that’s all.”

That killed the conversation stone dead and as d’Artagnan scurried off in the direction of Constance’s office, Porthos considered what the boy had said and was surprised, slightly worried even, that he'd been so absent minded. But then who wouldn’t be distracted when they were working for Dr Jekyll and about to go party with Mr Hyde?


	2. Chapter 2

“I said to wear something classy but simple.” Aramis eyed him up and down. “Those trousers are obscene, and as for that shirt.” He hooked his fingers into the back of the collar and took a peek at the label. “I thought so. That’s this season’s Miyake. It must have cost you at least a week's wages.”

“It was in the sale,” said Porthos, not wanting to admit that Aramis was right. “It’s a posh party," he added by way of explanation.

“And you’re there to serve the drinks,” reminded Aramis with a pointed look. 

“What about those blurred lines?” said Porthos, to which Aramis raised his eyebrows. 

Porthos immediately regretted making such a flippant comment. The last thing he wanted was for Aramis to think he was only going along to get a leg over when that wasn't his purpose at all. He had to see for himself how badly behaved his strait-laced boss could be on his days off. “Where’s this do at?” he added, to change the subject. 

“Renfrey Hall,” said Aramis. “It's a palladian mansion in Surrey and it looks great until you see what the owner’s bimbo of girlfriend has done to the inside of the place. If you can call her a girlfriend, that is. I know for a fact that he pays for her company.”

“Why does a rich bloke with a title and a big house need an escort?” said Porthos.

“That’s a generous description of Helen.” Aramis chuckled. “And to answer your question, well you’ve never met Rochefort.”

“No, but I’m kind of looking forward to it,” said Porthos. 

“You may change your mind when it happens.” A car horn beeped loudly and Aramis studied his check list then patted his pockets. “Apart from a million phone calls still to make, I’m ready for the off. How about you?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Porthos glanced into the hallway mirror on his way out the door. His trousers _were_ pretty snug in certain departments and the shirt screamed designer. Still, there was no harm in dressing to kill once in a while.

To allow room for drinking and save money on taxi fare, Aramis had arranged a lift with the catering crew. The two men squeezed themselves into the people carrier, which was already stacked with kitchen staff and waiters, all of them having a laugh and placing bets on what antics the insane party goers would get up to tonight. 

“Why don’t us lot have uniforms?” asked Porthos, indicating the front of house with an inclusive swing of his arm.

“They want you to blend in,” said Aramis and when Porthos smoothed down the front panels of his new Miyake he added: “Though you didn't need to be that well camouflaged.”

The minibus swung in through a pair of massive gates and cruised up a drive that was longer than the Edgeware Road. At the top of it was a honey coloured stately home, pillars adorning its frontage with dual sets of steps leading up to the grand entrance. Ignoring it, they drove swiftly around the back and parked up in the coaching yard, close to the servants' door.

"I don't know if I'm going to like being staff," muttered Porthos after carrying at least fifty cool boxes of food into the kitchen.

Finally off the phone from double checking the evening's entertainment, Aramis patted him on the shoulder. "It's just one night," he said in consolation. "Don't forget you wanted to do it, plus you'll get paid for your efforts."

Porthos brightened considerably. "I will?"

"It might offset a quarter of your shirt, or perhaps one shoe," laughed Aramis. 

Porthos had been hoping his friend didn't notice the Gucci loafers. Still, a good pair of footwear was an investment.

"Come on." Aramis draped an arm around his shoulders. "We'll set up the bar and have a couple while no one's looking. I love vintage Bollinger." 

Porthos followed his friend into the house, reeling with shock at the animal print wall coverings, digital dance floor and gold -- so much gold.

"The bar's going to be in the throne room," said Aramis, consulting his notes and veering off to the left.

Porthos had thought he was joking, but peeking out from behind a mountain of crates he saw two ornate, jewel encrusted thrones, standing before an enormous portrait of a weaselly man wearing a crown and carrying a sceptre.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, staring at Aramis. "Is that?"

"Yes, that's Ro-"

"Aramis, you never fail to disappoint,' said a voice from behind them. "Burlesque dancers, a circus in the grounds plus a goth band. Amazing work as always."

Porthos turned to see Aramis air kissing a miniature version of the dwarf in the painting. 

"And who is this?" said the little man, eyeing Porthos from Miyake top to shiny Gucci toes.

"This is my friend Porthos. He's kindly helping us out tonight."

Porthos cringed. He'd wanted to remain anonymous until the big reveal, and had even chosen an alias, Isaac. Shame he hadn't informed Aramis of his plans.

"Porthos, this is Lord Rochefort, sixth Viscount of Renfrey."

"Pleased to meet you, your Lordship," said Porthos.

"Oh, enough of that nonsense." Rochefort took Porthos' hand and held it a moment too long. "All my friends call me Roche."

Aramis’ phone rang and he took the call, his eyes growing wider by the second. "Must go," he said once he'd hung up. "One of the snake dancers has misplaced his python."

Left to his own devices, Porthos set out the bottles of spirit on the temporary bar and then filled the fridges with champagne. After doing so, he wandered off to have a nose around the rest of the house which was already crammed with people, none of whom were party goers.

One of the rooms was being laid out as a casino, croupiers stacking chips and filling shufflers. With a final loving look at the poker tables, Porthos left them to it and headed upstairs to see what outlandish décor he could discover on the first floor.

The interior was a gold and white palace, an homage to Katie Price, a shrine to all footballers’ wives, and Porthos felt decidedly out of place. As he ascended a second flight of stairs, things got much worse and he fought the urge to run screaming from the house. 

The master bedroom was dedicated to all things Victorian. Aiming for Gothic Revival in style, it eschewed Pugin and opted instead for Llewelyn Bowen at the height of his television infamy. Tacky beyond belief, everything was still leafed in gold, but this room was predominantly black from ceiling to floor. In the midst of it all stood the most enormous ebony four poster bed that Porthos had ever seen, draped with heavily embroidered curtains and covered, of course, with satin bedding.

"I've just had it decorated," said a smarmy voice. "Can you imagine what it's like slithering between those sheets?"

Embarrassed at being caught having a snoop, Porthos spun around and stared at Rochefort. "It's amazing," he said. "I'm er amazed." He felt himself grow hot. "I was looking for the loo."

"There's a staff lavatory near the kitchen," said Rochefort, unbuttoning his shirt. "I'd offer you mine, but I need to shower and dress."

The shirt was flung on the floor and Porthos hurriedly made his escape before any more of that pale pink flesh was revealed.

An hour later the guests began to turn up. The range of cars was incredible: an Aston to Zonda of luxury motoring. Porthos, however, was waiting for one specific arrival and lurked around the marble hallway, not wanting to miss seeing his boss make an entrance. When it finally happened it was disappointingly low key. Lafere rolled up late, dressed in crumpled beige chinos that were ripped at the knee, paired with a simple white shirt. His jacket was slung over one arm, and on the other was a gorgeous blonde woman, who immediately abandoned him without even a casual goodbye.

"Thanks for the lift, Athos," he called and, in addition to these words, he employed withering glance #2 which Porthos knew all too well from work.

"Thanks for the lift." She smirked over her shoulder at him and then disappeared into a mêlée of society's finest brats.

"You're welcome, Ninon." Arching a cynical eyebrow, he discarded his jacket on a Rococo chair and swaggered off to the bar. 

Lafere was a strider and a marcher, but never a swaggerer, thought Porthos, following at a discreet distance, still baffled by this man with his everyday clothing, scruffy hair and stubble, who looked, very much, as if he'd just tumbled out of a grotty nightclub at four a.m.

"How's the spy mission going?" whispered a conspiratorial voice as Porthos peered into the throne room.

Startled, he wheeled around to take in a grinning Aramis who was carrying two flutes of champagne. 

"Here, have this," his friend said, thrusting one of them into Porthos' hand. "James Bond can't be seen without a glass of something expensive."

"But I'm working," grinned Porthos.

"I'll fire you later," said Aramis. "So is the notorious Athos your man?"

"Yeah," said Porthos. "He’s definitely Oliver Lafere, but he's not the bloke I know."

"Give him a while to warm up and he'll undoubtedly surprise you even more," said Aramis with a wink.

Porthos peered around the door frame again. Athos was slouched against the bar with a bottle of red in his hand. An attractive woman was chatting to him, but his eyes were glazed over with boredom as he searched the room for alternative entertainment.

"Who's that he's with?" he asked Aramis.

Aramis took a quick peek. "Marie Michon." He winked at Porthos. "She's a beast in bed. I adore her." 

"No title?" asked Porthos.

"She's a duchess," said Aramis. "But you'd never know it from the filthy things she does with her tongue."

“Aramis,” sniggered Porthos. “Your blurred lines are showing,”

“And about to show even more, if I’m not mistaken,”replied Aramis, looking down the hallway at a couple of new arrivals. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, that enigmatic smile back on his face. “Don’t forget to serve the occasional drink.”

Checking out his prey, Porthos immediately darted for cover in a panic. Athos had snagged another bottle from the bar and was making his way to the door, spartan in his movements but with a languid air that was completely at odds with his daytime persona. Porthos followed him through the crowds, watching the way he acknowledged friends with a half smile or a quirk of the eyebrow, brushing unwanted people off him like flies, careless in his disinterest. Not for the first time, Porthos wondered what went on in the man’s head. He was just as aloof here, in this alternate universe, as he was at work, albeit in an entirely different manner.

Pushing through a set of double doors, still hot on the trail, Porthos found himself in an enormous ball room, the floor to ceiling windows covered in blackout blinds. The music was loud, an industrial drumbeat throbbing as the cover band thumped out a Sisters of Mercy classic, the bass line filling Porthos’ head.

He abandoned his champagne glass on a sideboard and wended his way through the crowd, almost at the point of giving up when he located Athos leaning against the far wall, a little way back from the stage, his arm draped around a young man as they snorted lines of coke, one after the other. A woman was kneeling in front of him, her head bobbing rhythmically and though Porthos couldn’t see the specifics, he knew that action well enough. Stashing the cocaine into the top pocket of his shirt, Athos turned to the man, hooking a hand around the back of his neck and then dragging him closer so that he could kiss him. There was nothing tender about the exchange and Porthos was transfixed. It was true; the photographs weren't lying.

During the break between songs, a nasally voice piped up loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. “Porthos, there you are. Come and serve us drinks.”

Rochefort may have been the host, but his request was an insignificance. Porthos watched in horror as Athos peeled himself away from the kiss and fixed furious green eyes on him, as if he _knew_ that his being here was no coincidence.

Rochefort snapped his fingers imperiously. “Fetch a case of champagne to the poker room, then join me at the tables.”

Again Porthos ignored him. This was not the moment of confrontation he had been hoping for. Oliver Lafere was not even in the building and his alter ego, Athos, was neither red faced, nor drunk, nor was he stopping the woman from giving him a blow job. In the end, it was Porthos who slunk away from this disastrous encounter, obediently following the clicking fingers of Lord Rochefort.

In a state of panic he looked around for Aramis, but his best friend was nowhere to be found. Out of ideas, he did as he was told, fetching a case of chilled champagne from the kitchen and carrying it through to the dining room that had now been rebranded as a gangster's gambling den. He could hide away in here until Aramis reappeared, then explain everything and make a swift exit. He wasn't going to consider what might happen on Monday, not that he'd done anything wrong. He wasn't the one playing fast and loose with charlie and two friends.

After topping up the champagne glasses, Porthos stepped back to watch the play. The amounts in the pot were immense, and if he'd wanted to join in--which he did--it would take him a year to raise the stake money. He exchanged a wide-eyed look with a couple of Rochefort's henchmen who were dotted about the room, but they must be used to high rolling and seemed entirely oblivious to the game.

"I'm out," said one of the players, his Eton accent ringing with irritation. Chucking his car keys at Rochefort, he grimaced at the little man. "I only just picked her up from the garage."

"Another Maserati to add to my collection," said Rochefort, watching his defeated opponent leave the room in a strop and then turning to smirk at Porthos. "Do you play? I couldn't help notice you were gazing rather longingly at the tables when I walked past here earlier."

Porthos shook his head vehemently. "Too rich for my pocket."

"But you look as if you'd love to join in and we need a fourth," wheedled Rochefort. "I'll stake you."

Drunk Porthos might have agreed, but sober Porthos wasn't an idiot. "No thanks," he said firmly.

"Then how about we play for fun," Rochefort said with a leer. "I haven't had a game of strip poker in years."

"That sounds like a fabulous idea, Roche," said one of the other players, tossing his long brown hair in delight, a vapid but merry grin on his face.

Porthos thought it over. He was a damn good player, good enough that he'd even considered taking it up as a profession, and it was only his tendency towards cheating that kept him away from the tables full time. That and a slight debt issue.

"I'll give it a go," he said, taking the spare seat and enjoying the look of irritation on the faces of the heavies. The buzz he got from having a good hand of cards in front of him was yet to be surpassed.

"Brilliant," said Rochefort. "I knew you'd be up for a good time. Five card stud suit all?" Reaching for a fresh deck, he knocked the set of car keys onto the floor. "Pick them up for me, will you? I'd hate to forget that I'd acquired a new Maserati."

Fumbling around in the speakeasy lighting, Porthos located the keys and handed them back to their new owner.

"Thank you," said Rochefort who was so flushed with success it was oozing out of his pores.

I'll teach you, thought Porthos with an inward smile. He went to top up the drinks, but found the glasses already full.

"And Louis, you're not allowed to stake that ridiculous wig," said Rochefort as he dealt.

"It's not a wig," snorted Louis. "Tell him, Philippe."

Several hands later Porthos was doing well. Down just one sock, he grinned as Philippe threw in his last shoe then stared at his cards which were beginning to blur before his eyes. He had a ten, that was for certain, but did he have another one?

"Go on, Porthos," urged Rochefort. "You've got that winning look about you. Let's see what's under that shirt."

Unable to work out what was going on, Porthos unbuttoned his Miyake and threw it into the pot. "I like winning," he slurred. "I'm good at it."

It turned out that he only had a single ten. 

"Bad luck," said Rochefort, holding up his new shirt. "I'll wear it in bed. Another hand? You never know, you might win it back."

Porthos needed it back. It was very important. "Yeah. Just one more."

Rochefort dealt all the cards at once. "Look at that," he said in amazement. "Five aces, you can't possibly lose."

Everyone laughed heartily and Porthos stared at his hand. Why were they all face up in a row? They didn't even look like aces, but he had to get his shirt back.

"Go with the trousers," advised Rochefort. 

Dizzy and confused, Porthos stood up. His belt was already staked, and so he undid the catch at the waistband of his dress pants then tugged at the zipper of his flies.

"Rochefort," said a remote but familiar voice. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Having a game of strip poker. Why? Do you want to join in?"

"I've warned you about this before."

Porthos was confused. About to pull down his trousers, he looked up at the last second into a pair of troubled green eyes. A hand descended onto his shoulder.

"Put them back on," said that refined voice.

Once again, Porthos did as he was told. He wasn't precisely certain who was giving orders, but it seemed comfortingly familiar in a world that was very weird indeed.

"Where's his shirt?"

"Oh no," said Rochefort. "I won that fair and square. He can have the shoes, but the Miyake's mine."

"You drugged him. I hardly think that constitutes fair," said the voice.

"Prove it," said Rochefort. "He's been drinking my champagne all night."

Porthos stared at the little man. He was leaning back in his chair, with his arms folded and a smug, rather amused, expression on his face. Hitting him seemed like a really good idea.

"Come on, Porthos," said the voice, fingers locking around his wrist. "Let's get you somewhere safe. I take it you're here because you're acquainted with Aramis?"

"He's my best friend in the world," said Porthos, wondering what his boss was doing at the poker game. "Have you got some contracts for me to draft?"

"Not tonight," said Lafere, his lips thinning into an angry line. "I have some personal business to attend to first."


	3. Chapter 3

Oh fuck! Porthos clutched at his head and rolled into a foetal position. The sunlight made him nauseous and he groaned and pulled the duvet back over himself until he and his migraine were cocooned together in Hell.

"Are you alive?" said a voice.

"No," growled Porthos, opening one eye and peeking out from under the quilt.

Aramis put a cup of coffee and a plate of toast on the bedside table then sat down on the edge of the bed. "I warned you to stay away from the freakshow."

Porthos searched back, but his memory bank was empty. "I don't know what happened," he said in a panic. He'd never had so much alcohol that he’d ended up with amnesia before. This was horrible. He was lost inside his own head. "I wasn't going to drink much. I was working." He curled back up in misery. "That's all I remember."

"You didn't," said Aramis and his voice tightened with anger. "It was that prick Rochefort. He ruffied you."

"Huh?" Porthos was aghast. He'd heard of Rohypnol. Who hadn't? But what the hell was the weasel thinking, using it on him? Ignoring the pounding headache, he sat up in bed and swilled down his coffee. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," said Aramis. "He's a creep and his friends aren't much better. You were playing strip poker with them and easily suggestible by all accounts."

"Whose accounts?" asked Porthos, a worrying feeling niggling at the back of his mind.

"Athos mainly," said Aramis. "He dragged you out of there and then came to find me."

"Athos?" The caffeine gluing his fragmented memory back together, Porthos recalled an ice cool voice and cringed. "Not Mr Lafere?"

"Yep." Aramis nodded. "I think there must be a nice guy lurking beneath that fucked up exterior. Apparently he went charging in to rescue you from Rochefort and his mob." He patted Porthos on the arm. "Anyway, no harm done."

"No harm done?" said Porthos incredulously as the enormity of the situation hit home. "I could have been date raped."

"But you weren't," said Aramis with a shrug. "So shut up and eat your toast. It'll make you feel better."

Porthos moped around for the rest of the weekend, doing nothing more than scoffing junk food and staring at the television. With his memory now fully functional, the stark reality of what had happened to him slowly sank in. Aware that he would have done anything Rochefort asked, he felt utterly violated. He was grateful beyond belief to Athos for saving him from a nasty situation, and was now racked with guilt for being rude enough to snoop. A man's private life was his own business.

Tempted to phone in sick on Monday morning, he manned up and made his way to work. After stopping off at his favourite café for coffee and a pastry, he arrived at the N-TEQ building in full stealth mode, peering around the corner of every corridor before sneaking into the office with his stash of goodies. 

On his desk was one of those expensive clothing bags, made of shiny cardboard with strings for handles. Porthos peeked into it and saw his missing shirt then stared at the silhouetted outline of Mr Lafere who was pacing his office and talking on the phone.

In a quandary, Porthos placed the bag at his feet and swallowed his breakfast danish without even tasting it. Summoning up some inner courage, he was about to go over and knock politely at the lion's den when the door opened and out came the king of the jungle himself, looking sleek and business like apart from a split lip, a bruised cheekbone and a second black eye that neatly covered the first.

"Porthos," said Lafere, striding briskly over to his desk. "The brigadier wants a completely new time frame on that target contract. The tenders have to be written up ASAP so we can advertise them as a rush job. Will that be a problem?"

"No," said Porthos, wondering how best to slip an apology and a thank you into the conversation. "I have nothing to do tonight. I can stay late and finish them."

"Good," said Lafere. "Much appreciated." And with that he was gone, marching off to the lifts until all that was left of him was the fresh scent of aftershave. 

Disappointed by his own reticence, Porthos leant forward to access the file on his computer, diligently working away at it and opting for a lunch from the vending machine rather than his usual hour long break.

By a quarter to seven he had the paperwork for the tenders prepared, checked and double checked. He'd emailed them to Lafere and was now waiting apprehensively for the verdict. Any errors would mean that the deadline would be missed.

After ten minutes and still no response, Porthos stuck his head around the door of Lafere's office. "Are they okay?" he asked tentatively.

"Fine," said Lafere. "I'd have told you if they weren't."

Porthos fell back to his default setting of _awkward_ , but then Lafere turned and smiled at him. "Good work. Thank you for your help."

And thank you for yours, replied Porthos silently. That sounded ridiculous and he desperately tried to come up with something cool yet grateful, without seeming too obsequious. Perhaps he should ask the man out for a drink?

"It's late," added Lafere, dismissing him without a second glance. "Go home." 

Grunting something non-committal, Porthos hurried back to his desk, packing away his things and remembering, at the last second, to pick up the clothing bag. Miyake didn't belong in the work place.

\---

"What the hell is the matter with you?" said Aramis, finally reaching the end of his very long tether after Porthos had spent three consecutive days in a bad temper, grumbling about everything from football results to poorly toasted sandwiches.

The truth of it was he was irritable from frustration, having tried and failed, on every one of those days, to say his piece to Lafere. He felt indebted to the man for helping out and needed to tell him so, but it just wasn't happening.

"You're organising another party for the freaks and weirdos on Saturday," said Porthos. "I heard you on the phone earlier."

"It's a favour for Athos. A birthday get together for his friend, Ninon." Aramis shrugged. "I couldn't very well say no under the circumstances."

"I want to come along," said Porthos, folding his arms to show his determination.

Aramis looked pained. "No, Porthos. There's no point. Rochefort won't be there. He's been ordered to stay away and Athos has already defended your honour by beating up him and his henchmen. He's handy in a fight, your boss."

This time it was Porthos who looked pained. Athos wasn't his boss; that was the crux of the problem. "I need to apologise for stalking him," he said.

"You see him every day at work."

"I see Mr Lafere," replied Porthos.

"Gah!" Aramis flung his arms out to the sides in a Latin gesture of frustration. "It's the same person, Porthos."

How could Porthos possibly explain when he didn't understand it himself? "Aramis, _please_."

Aramis groaned in frustration. "Damn it, you know I can never resist those eyes."

\---

This time, when they set off for the countryside, Porthos wasn't the slightest bit excited. Instead, he was apprehensive but determined to make things right. Not that work had been anything but a breeze this last week, but a debt of gratitude was owed and debts weighed heavily on Porthos' shoulders.

"This is Athos' place?" he said, looking around him in surprise. The grounds were vast, landscaped with ornamental ponds and hedge mazes, but the house was a bad fit within its environment: an industrial sepulchre of glass, concrete and steel.

"The hall burnt down a few years ago," said Aramis. "There were a lot of rumours about the circumstances surrounding it, but no one's certain what actually happened. Anyway, rather than trying to reconstruct the original building, he opted for something modern."

Modern it was, but also cold, thought Porthos. Bleak. Maybe Athos and Lafere weren't so different after all.

Despite the fact he wasn't officially working this time, Porthos got stuck in, carrying crates of food and drink from the vans. He had no intention of snooping tonight, which was just as well because there was no reason to do so. Nothing extravagant was happening. Canapés and glasses were being laid out on the vast polished concrete bar in the kitchen and fridges were stacked with drinks. Music was being pumped throughout the house and the lighting adjusted via a central control. That was it: the party was now planned.

"Piece of cake," said Aramis, dusting off his hands.

"All done?" said Athos, wandering into the kitchen and making a pot of coffee the old fashioned way, ignoring the expensive machine in the corner. 

"Done," said Aramis. "To be honest, you don't even need me here."

"You're good with people," said Athos and just for a moment there was something akin to fear in his eyes. After pouring three mugs of coffee he hopped up onto the kitchen top and glared at Porthos. "I don't remember inviting you, Mr Vallon."

Porthos was floored by a sudden attack of shyness and an inability to speak up. He didn't even know how to address the man. "I wanted to say thank you for last weekend," he mumbled.

Aramis opened the electronic sliding doors that led to the terrace and swimming pool and, being a master of diplomacy, he left them to it. He understood how much this conversation meant to Porthos. 

Unfortunately, Athos was less aware. "You're welcome," he said briskly. "Now, if you don't mind-"

But Porthos hadn't quite finished. "I also wanted to say sorry." His voice was rough, loud in his ears and as out of place as this house was in its landscaped grounds. "I shouldn't have been so nosy."

"No harm done." Athos' eyes were wary rather than cold. "Provided you can be discreet."

"I can. I promise," said Porthos earnestly.

"Good," said Athos. "Now please go. When I'm away from work, I prefer to spend time with my friends rather my colleagues."

The distinction between both groups was clear and callously stated. "Fine." Hurt by the harshness of those words, Porthos walked out without a second glance. 

Wandering around the perimeter of the building, he Googled train stations and taxis on his phone, and was about to call a local cab company when one of the caterers, Serge, ambled past with a fag in his mouth.

"I'm driving back to London in half an hour, if you don't mind waiting a bit," he said. "It's hell to get home from here. I hate the bloody countryside."

"Cheers, mate," said Porthos, brightening up.

"No problem," said Serge. "Us ordinary blokes have to stick together."

As soon as the guests started arriving, Porthos pinched a cigarette from Aramis, popped a beer and moved to the fringes, lurking out of sight whilst he waited for Serge to finish in the kitchen. The scene resembled one of those semi-reality TV shows: twats going wild in Berkshire rather than Chelsea. Like Attenborough on a wildlife shoot, Porthos narrated the goings on in a sarcastic undertone, checking his watch and wondering when the hell Serge was going to be ready to leave. A kitchen disaster had delayed him, but this was taking the piss.

A short while later he had never been more grateful for a batch of burnt canapés when Athos appeared on the balcony of an upstairs room, climbing onto the railings, utterly wasted by the look of things, and Porthos' heart stopped. It was possibly a jumpable distance to the pool, but if the man misjudged it then there was nothing below him but tile and concrete.

Certain that the people gathered below would try and put an end to this display of insanity, Porthos was horrified when, instead of talking Athos down, they started clapping and cheering him on. He ran for the house, a streak of lightning racing across the terrace and pushing his way through the crowd, not giving a shit if any of those obnoxious arseholes ended up in the water.

"These are not what I call mates," he muttered, looking up momentarily to see Athos teetering above him, climbing higher now towards the roof.

"Jump. Jump. Jump," went the chorus of voices.

The organised design of the house made it easy to figure out which way to go. Wishing he hadn't seen the paraphernalia in the bedroom, Porthos ran straight for the open doors that led out to the balcony.

Athos was back on the railings, stripped off to his boxer briefs and wobbling precariously as he threw his last sock into the crowd.

"Oi!" yelled Porthos. "Get the fuck down from there, or I'll give you another black eye."

In retrospect, shouting wasn't the most sensible approach to take. Startled, Athos misjudged his footing and slipped. Porthos charged forward and grabbed him milliseconds before he fell, hauling him to the safety of the balcony where they remained in a twisted heap of bodies, trying to catch their breath.

"I told you to get lost," said Athos, turning, glaring and promptly passing out.

Porthos felt violently sick. If he'd been a metre further away, a second slower, then Athos would be a bloody mess on the concrete. Getting to his feet, he heaved the unconscious man into his arms and then threw him unceremoniously onto the mattress, taking slight pity and covering him up with a super sized bath towel. He then sat on the edge of the bed, shaking from a combination of fear and anger, trying to pull himself together enough to escape this madhouse.

"Thank you," said a quiet voice.

Porthos looked up to see Ninon standing in the doorway. If he opened his mouth then everything that came out of it would be offensive. He remained judiciously silent.

"Am I welcome?" she asked, stepping across the threshold and closing the door behind her.

"Best you don't talk to me," growled Porthos. He turned his head to watch the rise and fall of Athos' chest.

"I need to," said Ninon, sitting next to him. "I think you have something important to say."

"He's just my boss," said Porthos in an accusing voice. "He's supposed to be your friend."

"He's my best friend and I love him," she said wearily, "but I can't stop him from behaving like this. Believe me I've tried. He's been like it for years."

"Aramis told me about the drug taking and the dangerous stuff, but I never thought..." Porthos paused. "He could've died and you lot just let it happen. Encouraged him to do it." Something dawned on him. "You're not even drunk."

Ninon looked down at her hands. "Athos pulls stunts like this every weekend. I suppose I've grown blasé about it. We all have. We're starting to believe he's invincible." She glanced at Porthos. "I rarely drink much, by the way. I don't like to lose control."

"Try exerting some of that control over him," said Porthos in a gruff voice.

"I have," said Ninon. "But he needs someone stronger than me." She stood up. "Stay until he wakes up. Talk some sense into him." She paused on her way out. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I don't _think_ he's just your boss."

The door closed behind her leaving Porthos in a state of confusion. He'd known Lafere for over two years and was, at best, ambivalent towards him. At worst he actively disliked the man. What gave this woman the right to waltz in, declare that there was something between them, and then leave him alone with these muddled feelings?

Kicking off his shoes, Porthos stretched out on the bed, enjoying the bounce of the mattress and the softness of the feather pillows beneath his head. The man might want to present himself as spartan, but he certainly liked his luxuries.

It was a shock when Athos muttered something indiscernible then rolled over until he was resting against Porthos' side. Uncertain quite what to do, he opted finally to slide an arm around that warm body and tug at the towel until they were both covered in inch thick terry cloth.


	4. Chapter 4

"Why are we in bed together?" said a startled voice.

Porthos opened his eyes and couldn't help grinning at the befuddled expression on Athos' face. If he were a bad man then he could have a lot of fun with this, but he doubted Athos was up to being teased. For that matter, he doubted whether Athos was ever up for teasing.

"You thought you could fly," said Porthos. "I had to convince you otherwise. After that you passed out and fell asleep in my arms."

Athos flushed crimson. "Well, it seems we're even now. Thank you." The words were stiff and formal.

"Crack is a moronic thing to get into," said Porthos. "It destroys lives. I've seen it happen."

"That's none of your business," said Athos, sitting up and then realising, for the first time, that he was naked but for a pair of underpants. His expression was hilarious.

"You were about to dive off the balcony railings into the swimming pool," explained Porthos. "Not a problem if the pool was directly below, only yours isn't. Still, you were fucked up enough to think you could make it." He shook his head trying to dispel the awful images of might have beens. "Have a drink. Have a smoke. Snort a line occasionally, if you must, but leave it at that, eh?"

There was a long silence which then erupted into something totally unexpected.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" shouted Athos. "Spying on me was bad enough, but now you're telling me what I can and can't do in my own home." 

It was the first time Porthos had ever known the man lose his temper and, boy, did he do it in spectacular style.

"I've half a mind to fire you," Athos continued.

Now it was Porthos' turn to lose his cool. "Do it then," he yelled. "I'd rather be on the dole than have to go to your fucking funeral and pretend I was sad that my wanker of a boss had killed himself, doing something pathetic for shits and giggles."

Athos half groaned, half snarled. It was a feral sound and the two men squared up to each other, full of animosity. For some insane reason, events then took a detour and instead of scrapping they were kissing, lunging closer and taking in angry mouthfuls, tongues all push and thrust until Athos was clawing at Porthos' clothes.

"Get undressed," he hissed. "Now."

"Fuck you," said Porthos and he shoved his hand into Athos' pants and gripped him firmly, thumbing him until he was slick and then wanking him with fierce pulls of his fist. "You don't get to boss me around in here."

All the fight went out of Athos and he submitted with a sigh that was as much about relief as it was arousal.

Porthos stripped him and held him down on the bed, kneeling over him and sucking deep red kisses onto skin that was as pale as Rochefort's but far more appealing. Still straddling him, legs tight against his flanks, Porthos began to undress. It was a strip show of an act as he unfastened his shirt, button by button and then chucked it aside and peeled off his wife beater. Unbuckling his belt, he popped open the first four buttons of his flies to reveal a hint of cotton covered erection and enjoying the appreciative look from Athos, he bent his head and went to work on his manager's cock, licking him, teasing him with a finger and then throating him hard until he came.

"Sorry," said Athos, red faced at finishing so quickly.

Porthos kissed the words away, undressing fully and then exploring again, encouraging Athos onto all fours then licking into him and stretching him open with saliva wet fingers. "Have you got slick?" he asked.

Athos waved a hand towards the bedside cabinet and when Porthos opened the drawer he found various flavours of lube, plenty of condoms and a pretty hefty dildo that rivalled his own cock for size. He was torn, wanting to play but needing to be in Athos when he was languid and spaced out from orgasm. The games could wait until later, he decided.

He hated using condoms, but tonight the rubber was a godsend, desensitising him enough to enjoy every moment as he nudged inside Athos. This was surreal, he thought as he hooked an arm around that narrow waist, pulling him backwards until he was fully embedded and seated on his lap. 

Turning his head, Athos looked at him: fear, wonder and absolute pleasure all present in those eyes.

"It's okay," said Porthos, half expecting to be thrown out for being patronising. 

This had massive potential to be an awkward moment, but instead Athos' lips tugged upwards into a half smile. He inclined his head enough to kiss him and with Porthos' hands gripping his hips, fingertips biting bruises into skin, he began to move.

Jesus fuck, it was unbelievably good. Porthos licked at that sulky mouth, shunting into Athos, his mind blown by the tight hot togetherness of this. 

With Porthos still on his haunches, Athos turned in his lap, facing him now, slamming down onto him and yet keeping the pace at a slow tease. After a while they stretched out, still joined, bodies connected as they moved, rocked, kissed, Athos semi-hard and murmuring encouragement until Porthos was overloaded with need. 

"Fuck," he said pushing Athos down onto his belly, a hand squeezing at his shoulder as he pounded into him, roaring with pleasure when he came. "Fuck," he repeated when he'd finished and was sprawled boneless over that pliant body. "The windows are still open." He hadn't even noticed the sounds of a party going on below.

"Don't care," muttered Athos. "Sleep."

Porthos wasn't tired, and after going for a pee and flushing the condom down the loo, he came back to the bedroom to find Athos buried under the expensive feather quilt. About to get into bed, he paused, wondering whether he ought to go home instead, but a hand was beckoning to him and with a smile of hedonistic delight he joined Athos under the covers.

\---

Porthos woke in Heaven with Athos' lips sealed around his cock. Pushing back the bedclothes he tucked his hands behind his head and enjoyed every second of the blow job. 

It was late. The sounds of the party had diminished down to those incoherent ramblings of the seriously drunk as they fixed all the problems in the world with the aid of Bollinger and weed. The bedroom was lit only by the poolside lighting which illuminated everything with a diffused glow, matching the state of Porthos' mind.

He watched Athos--his boss, he reminded himself--go down on him with a talented and well practiced mouth, sucking at him lazily, pulling off his cock with a pop and then diving back down, unhurried and pleasure seeking, his hand working away between his own legs if the movements were anything to go by.

Porthos tugged the quilt off them. "I want to watch you," he said softly when Athos looked up at him.

Athos knelt between Porthos' spread legs, pulling slowly at his cock, hips jerking into his fist. Leaning forward he rubbed himself over Porthos and then arched his back further to resume that steady sucking. When the bedroom door opened he didn't even look up.

Porthos trailed a protective hand through messy hair and grinned sheepishly at his best friend. 

"I've been looking everywhere for you," said Aramis. "Serge thought you must have got a taxi home, but I was sure you'd at least leave a message for me before running off."

Only in this bizarre world could two mates carry on a normal conversation whilst one of them was getting head. "He got wasted," said Porthos.

"I heard," said Aramis. "And this is your way of counselling him?" He shrugged his worries aside. "Not that it's any of my business. By the way, I won't be home for a while,” he continued. “Things to see. People to do."

Porthos had stopped listening somewhere around the counselling part. Athos was doing magic tricks with his tongue and with both hands now threaded into that hair, Porthos canted his hips and groaned.

"I'll leave you to it," said Aramis, unable to take his eyes off them. "That looks like fun. If I hadn't got plans then I'd join you."

"If you were bi."

"I'm feeling quite bi."

"You're just perving," said Porthos amiably as he twisted around in the bed to gain access to Athos' cock. "It's different. Now, bugger off."

"Tell Athos the house is tidy, the last guests are gone and the place is all his."

"I'll tell him," said Porthos. "Go."

Aramis grinned. "All I can say is have fun, and please don't let this turn into another disastrous misery-fest."

Porthos waved him away and was relieved when the door slammed shut. "Thank fuck," he said moving again and stretching out next to Athos, wondering when that mouth had suddenly become so enticing. He kissed it, tongue exploring every millimetre in detail.

"Your friend's a nutcase," said Athos, wrapping his hand around Porthos' cock and pulling at it with lazy strokes.

"Aramis is a law unto himself," said Porthos. "But enough about him; there are things I want from you."

"Such as?" Athos arched an eyebrow and continued to play with Porthos' cock.

"Have a wank," said Porthos in a husky voice. "Rub one out on me."

This was his secret pleasure. It was how he'd discovered he was bisexual, getting huge kicks out of watching blokes masturbate. 

Athos squeezed slick into both their palms and they lay on their sides and stroked themselves off, every so often brushing cocks together. 

"We did this a lot in the army," said Athos. "Even the straight guys. It wasn't queer as long as there wasn't any touching. Men are so deluded."

"I got up to something similar at school camp. That’s when I found out how much I liked guys," said Porthos. "Not easy being bent in Tower Hamlets."

"It was easy enough at Winchester."

Athos grinned and it was the first time Porthos had seen a full smile on his face. It was lovely; it lit the man up and Porthos was overwhelmed by a horrible, wonderful lurching sensation inside him. He leaned in and nipped at Athos' mouth, tugging at that lower lip and then licking into him. As their tongues played together their hands instinctively switched over to push each other to climax. When Porthos came, it was partly triggered by the splash of come on his cock, but mostly it was from the look in Athos' eyes. How had he ever thought they were cold?

"That was good," he said, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“Yeah." Athos wiped his hands on the towel then lit a joint. Plumping the pillows behind him, he sank back into them. "Really good."

After a while he passed the spliff to Porthos who took a long draw on it. "It's been a while," he said, enjoying the hazy feeling as the dope tickled at his senses. "I didn't want to get busted by N-TEQ and lose my job. Who'd've thought my boss would be the bad influence."

He laughed, but Athos looked less than amused. "I don't discuss work at any time other than when I'm in the building."

"You're a weird bastard." Porthos took a couple more hits and then passed the joint back. "But I'm beginning to like you."

Athos huffed with quiet laughter and dropped the butt into a glass of water. "Ready to go again, or do you need some more sleep?"

"Nap," said Porthos, wriggling down under the duvet and holding out his arms.

They woke to the muted brightness of mid morning, restless in bed and aroused by each other's presence.

"Shower?" suggested Athos.

"You don't have any staff here, do you?"

"No," said Athos, looking bemused.

"Then I want to fuck you out there," said Porthos, pointing at the french doors. 

Feverish with excitement, he caught Athos by the wrists, dragging him out of bed in his need, and going by the sudden rigidity of that cock it seemed as if Athos was far from unwilling. Grabbing a condom and some slick on the way, Porthos stood on the balcony, bathed in sunshine, naked and erect. "God, this is the life. If I were you I'd never leave."

"Unfortunately I have to pay for the pleasure of it," said Athos, crouching down and sucking Porthos deep into his throat.

Porthos had assumed that a title was synonymous with lots of money, but he wasn't about to be drawn into a conversation that would inevitably put Athos in a bad mood. "Come here," he said, reaching for the man. "My cock is begging to be inside you."

"And are you in agreement with it?" said Athos, raising an amused eyebrow.

"I've never agreed with anything more in my entire life." Porthos grinned and then he licked dry lips. "Lean over the railings."

Athos submitted beautifully and Porthos buried a hand inside him, finger fucking him and teasing at his sweet spot until he was begging helplessly for more. Out here, suspended in this rich man's paradise with his cold hearted boss bent over and pleading for him, Porthos felt like a king.

His cock prepped and poised, he inched forward, a hand splayed on the small of Athos' back, and as he began to fuck him properly, the noises Athos made were practically pornographic.

"This has got to be a better use for the balcony," Porthos groaned, reaching around to have a feel. "No more stage diving."

With Porthos pounding into him, Athos braced himself on the railing. "You should have had me last night. Fucked me until I was coming all over the crowd."

"Next time I will," groaned Porthos, pulling out until only the tip was embedded then easing back inside and watching the show as his cock was swallowed by Athos' body. He let his fingers drift, scratching, tickling, teasing the man into a frenzy, all the time fucking him with slow, deliberate strokes.

"Harder," snarled Athos, rolling his hips and shoving back into him.

"You want it hard," said Porthos, pulling out and then slamming back inside. "You can have it hard." He repeated the move. "As long as you come in my mouth afterwards."

"Fine," gasped Athos.

"Promise?" Porthos canted his hips until he was almost free of Athos, a slight forward momentum the only thing keeping them joined. “No coming while I’m screwing you, or I'll spank that pretty arse of yours.”

"I promise." Athos pushed up from the railing, reaching for Porthos' mouth to seal the deal with a kiss. 

Grasping Athos by the hips, Porthos began to fuck him, forceful and rhythmic, the speed of his strokes increasing until he was pounding into him from behind, so close, closer, his legs shaking as he shuddered out his orgasm.

Falling immediately to his knees, he dragged at Athos, tumbling them over until his mouth was where it needed to be and he was gobbling down mouthful after mouthful of come.

"You passed out in this exact spot last night," he said when they were done.

"I'm not far from it now," murmured Athos, his hand stroking endless patterns across Porthos' broad back.

\---

This was everything that Porthos had been hoping for from that wipe-out of a bank holiday weekend. Everything and more. Lazy to the extreme, they ate leftover party food and invented cocktails, spending the entire time naked, alternating swims in the pool with legendary amounts of sex, and occasionally combining the two.

"I suppose I'd better go home soon," said Porthos as the sun began to redden and slip towards the horizon. It was Sunday evening and their time together had run out.

"I'll drive you." Athos opened his eyes and smiled at Porthos. "I haven't drunk much today. I've had other ways to keep occupied." 

Despite being a notorious party animal, Athos appeared to live a very solitary existence at La Fère. There were no phone calls. He never checked emails. He was a hermit. 

"Thanks," said Porthos. "It must be a pain in the arse living out in the sticks."

Athos shrugged. "I'm used to it," he said.

"You must get lonely?" said Porthos, reaching out to play with Athos' fingers. He had nice hands. They looked as expensive as he smelled. 

"Stop fishing," laughed Athos and catching hold of Porthos' wrist, he kissed his pulse point. "Come to bed. Fuck me one last time."

Porthos had a ton of stuff to do when he got back, laundry for work and emails to catch up on, but his cock was already making its feelings on the subject known, and who cared about the mundane things in life when this was on offer.

"You're a bloody satyr," he laughed as they stood together, holding each other, enjoying shared body heat and the constant thread of excitement that bound them together.

"You're just as bad." Athos hooked an arm around his neck and kissed him, grinding against his erection. "Come to bed, Porthos. I need you."

To compensate for them being knackered and sore, the sex was more of an undulating roll between the sheets, but it was every bit as much of a delight as their first time together. Here, in the bedroom, they were uninhibited, talking freely about fantasies and experiences, chatting whilst wanking then joining together and fucking intimately, face to face, before coaxing final explosive orgasms out of each other. 

"Now I _really_ have to go," said Porthos, glancing at the clock and running for the shower.

If Athos was quiet during the journey back to London then Porthos made up for it, talking about everything from movies to mobile phone choices. He was happy and when he was happy he was a chatterbox.

"It's been amazing," he said when Athos pulled up outside his flat and switched off the engine. Cradling that pretty face in both hands, he kissed him thoroughly, and then once more for luck. "Come in for a cuppa?"

"We both know how that'll end and I'm running on empty." Athos smirked. "Besides which, I have things to do."

"Me too. The dreaded 'W' word tomorrow." Porthos nodded solemnly. "I'll see you in the morning." High on life, he climbed out of the car and floated over to the door on a jet-stream of champagne bubbles and cologne scented air then let himself into the flat.

"You dog!" called Aramis from the living room. "I thought you’d be home long before me. Have you netted yourself a rich boyfriend?"

Porthos sincerely hoped so and not for mercenary reasons. He liked Athos a lot. "Who knows?" he replied. "But we're definitely sexually compatible. I've never fucked so much in my life. I swear I haven't a single sperm left in my body."


	5. Chapter 5

Porthos was used to rejection. His life had been one long round of it, passed from auntie to auntie, moving on when each one grew fed up of his large appetite and constant growth spurts. For some reason, however, he hadn't been expecting it from Athos.

Monday was a nightmare from start to finish. Ignoring everything that had happened between them, Athos reverted back to Mr Lafere the refrigerator. Efficient and cold, the man barked out orders, jerking away as if he'd been burnt when Porthos dared come too close. He remained hidden in his office for most of the day, emerging only briefly to go to the loo and then scuttling back inside, away from danger. 

Porthos was miserable, but more than that he felt dirty, ashamed when he had absolutely no need to be. Relationships in the workplace were a notoriously bad idea, but a couple of days’ sex didn't merit this kind of overreaction.

"What's the matter?" said Aramis when by the end of the week Porthos' spirits had sunk so low he could barely even manage a conversation.

"I don't want to talk about it," said Porthos. "Anyway, I'm sure you can guess."

Aramis patted him sympathetically on the shoulder and left him alone to brood. They'd been friends for a long time and he knew Porthos well enough to let him work things through in his head. This was a horrible mess, but it was of his own making. He'd been through worse and was determined to show some resilience. 

Another week passed by with Athos still blanking him. Porthos could have coped with the awkwardness of the situation if the man had at least spoken to him like a human being and let him down gently. This kind of behaviour was simply cruel, not to mention childish.

The weekends were a sanctuary, allowing him to mope in peace for two days without being bothered by life. Aramis was invariably working, and so Saturday nights were set aside for pizza, beer and the king of god awful talent shows.

 _He_ could sing better than this bunch of losers, Porthos decided, picking up another slice of pepperoni deep pan. The performance was so bad he was relieved, when his phone rang, that he’d have an excuse to mute the telly. A glance at the mobile told him it was Aramis calling and this set off alarm bells. He wouldn't bother him during X Factor unless he was in dire trouble.

"What's up, mate?" he asked.

"Porthos, can you come over?" said a voice that didn't belong to Aramis, but was annoyingly familiar. "Get a taxi. I'll pay."

"Why are you using Aramis' phone?" he demanded.

"I borrowed it. Porthos, please. I need to see you."

"Call a whore. It'll probably be cheaper than the cab fare," growled Porthos, hanging up in disgust and then powering off his mobile. 

He knew Athos was cold, but he honestly didn't think he was this much of a bastard. He didn't even sound wasted.

Instead of waiting for the X Factor results, Porthos dug out his contract and read through the terms and conditions of employment. He didn't get a lot of sleep that night. Churning with resentment, he was woken by confused dreams and ended up, at four a.m, drafting a letter _to whom it may concern_. 

\---

With a full day to consider what he was about to do, Porthos was all the more determined when Monday rolled around again. Courage boosted by outrage, he knocked on the door of Athos' office, deliberately leaving it open so that the conversation remained strictly on topic.

Athos looked tired, probably knackered after another riotous weekend of sex, drugs and selfishness. "What can I do for you, Porthos?" he asked in a low voice.

Making sure he maintained as much eye contact as possible, Porthos passed over the letter of resignation. "I'm handing in my notice. Four weeks as stated in my contract," he explained.

Athos opened the envelope, unfurled the paper and read through it slowly, finally lifting his head to look at Porthos.

"Please don't," he said simply.

It wasn't the response Porthos had expected, but it didn't change his mind. "I can't work under these conditions.” He let out a weary sigh, full of disappointment. “There are plenty of other suitable jobs about, so it's time for me to move on."

"I won't accept it," said Athos and he slumped suddenly as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of him. " _I'll_ leave N-TEQ. This is my mistake."

Porthos bridled at this. So he was nothing more than a mistake. "I've made my decision," he said, wheeling around and walking out.

The day passed by, neither slowly nor quickly, but the clock ticked through the hours with steady regularity. Porthos had plenty of things to do. There were a new set of tenders to keep him occupied, plus he had to register with the recruitment agencies.

He was busy hunting through job sites when the cool scent of the ocean alerted him to an unwelcome presence at his shoulder. 

"Porthos, will you have lunch with me?" said Athos in that clear, patrician voice. "We have things we need to discuss."

Porthos didn't look up from the screen. "No, we don't, Mr Lafere. My resignation still stands."

"Mate," wailed d'Artagnan, from the neighboring hutch. "You can't leave N-TEQ. No way."

An unhappy chuntering started up as the news travelled around the office, and soon Porthos was surrounded by friends, all of them trying to dissuade him from his plans. Athos was swallowed up in the ruck, pushed to one side, and when Porthos casually looked around he discovered that the man had retreated to the safety of his office. It was only later, when his anger had subsided, that Porthos realised that Athos had asked him out on a lunch date. Shame it was a fortnight too late.

He left five minutes early in time to catch the train, stopping off at the local newsagent to buy an armful of papers. It was worth having a look at any major vacancies that might exist in the commercial arm of the city. He didn't _quite_ have Aramis' gift of the gab, but it was a close run thing, and he could probably talk himself into a highly paid job, provided he could finagle his way into an interview. 

Rounding the corner, he screwed up his face in frustration at the sight of a battered black Porsche parked in one of the residents only bays outside his building.

"Porthos, can I have a word?"

Porthos refused to look at Athos until he was on home territory. Once inside the flat, he threw his pile of newspapers onto the hall table then turned to glare at his soon to be erstwhile boss.

"Please," said Athos and he had that wounded look on his face that messed with Porthos' head, however he had no intention of falling for the little boy lost act again. 

"I'm not going to be anyone's dirty secret," he growled, slamming the door in Athos' face.

"Trouble at t'mill?" asked Aramis when Porthos stormed through into the kitchen to find beer.

"Trouble fucking everywhere," snapped Porthos. "Don't even ask."

"Believe me, I wish I hadn't," said Aramis in an undertone as he hot footed it out of the line of fire.

Sighing with frustration, Porthos made himself some dinner. He hated being an arse to his best mate, but right now he couldn't help it. Halfway through a plate of beans on toast, his phone rang with an unknown number and, assuming it was from one of the job agencies he'd registered with, he answered it as brightly and breezily as he could manage whilst suffering from a severe case of the blues.

"You're not a secret, dirty or otherwise." There was a pause. "I'm terrible with people. I'm sorry."

"Being terrible with people is a lame excuse," said Porthos. "You're cold, rude and cruel."

"I can't help it."

Porthos hung up because he really wasn't in the mood for listening to someone trying to justify that sort of callous behaviour.


	6. Chapter 6

Something strange was happening. As Porthos worked out his period of notice, things began to change for the better. A realist could have explained it away on the fact he was looking forward to leaving N-TEQ, but Porthos wasn't prone to rationalism or cynicism. What he did know for certain was that Athos was making an effort.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, his boss became a new man, polite to Porthos, praising his work and discussing issues with him as if his opinions actually mattered. If nothing else, this boosted his ego and proved to him that he _was_ good at his job. He knew how to resolve some of the trickier problems that arose and had even impressed the brigadier with his skills: an old soldier who was notoriously hard to please.

"It's an awful shame Porthos is leaving us next week," said Athos, during one of their morning meetings.

"Not happening. Not unless you've got a damn good excuse, young man." The brigadier rounded on him, his bushy eyebrows raised to the ceiling. "There's a vacancy coming up for a supervisory role here. More money and responsibility. Would that encourage you to stay on at N-TEC?"

"I- I'd have to think about it," said Porthos.

"Nonsense," said the brigadier. "Do you want the job or not?"

Porthos watched his principles fly out of the window. He'd wanted to prove a point, but to throw away an opportunity like this would be lunacy. "I- Yes. Yes, I do, very much indeed. Thank you."

"Good. I'll pull a few strings," said the brigadier on his way out the door. "Oil the way as such."

Porthos tried to suppress the laughter at this choice of phrase, but the tiniest of glances revealed a wicked smirk on Athos' face and Porthos gave in to his amusement.

"Have lunch with me to celebrate," said Athos and he stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Porthos' waist and leaning in to kiss him. "I'm sorry for being such a prick to you. You confuse me."

"I confuse _you_?" Porthos was astounded. He was uncomplicated: a pack of cards face up on the table, all laid out in suits. Athos was that same deck, shuffled around and then thrown out of a window.

The office door was open, people were walking past, but Athos didn't seem to care. He kissed Porthos again, his tongue tracing the line of Porthos' lips. "Will you please forgive me?"

God, this was unsettling. Porthos was aroused, frustrated and ecstatic, all at the same time. If he had an iota of common sense he’d… Well, he’d do exactly what he had done: take the promotion and the pay rise on offer, not to mention the infuriating man that apparently came as part of the deal. 

"If you keep rubbing up against my cock like that I'll be showing you exactly how much I forgive you, right here on your desk," continued Porthos and, for a brief moment, he gave in, opening his mouth and kissing Athos back, revealing every ounce of his intent. "I just got promoted and now I'm snogging the boss," he said gruffly, once the spell of reacquaintance was over, his hands resting on Athos' shoulders. "That won't look good to them lot."

"The brigadier promoted you." Athos smirked. "I just oiled the way."

"As soon as I get you naked I'm gonna oil your way so thoroughly you won't be able to sit down for a week," growled Porthos, tracing the shell of Athos’ ear with the tip of his tongue.

"I can't wait," said Athos. "How about we forget lunch and go back to my place?"

"Sounds perfect to me," said Porthos and as they hurried out of the building, blithely ignoring the amused looks from their colleagues and racing each other to the car, he had a sudden urge to drill Athos into his polished kitchen worktop.

\---

In the space of a day, Porthos had gone from being the most miserable fucker on the planet to the happiest man alive. He was a different person now. He couldn’t stop smiling and sang tunelessly around home and office. Delighted for him, Aramis grinned and patted him on the back a lot. D'Artagnan however was a git, teasing him relentlessly about sleeping with the boss, which was rather hypocritical, Porthos thought, seeing as Constance needed a do not disturb sign on her door. But then again, so did Athos.

Office trysts were exciting and their evenings together were lovely, but the weekend couldn't come too soon, as far as Porthos was concerned.

It was when they were relaxing, sprawled together in bed with X Factor playing in the background, that he decided, for better or worse, it was heart to heart time. 

"So, why _were_ you such a bastard to me at work?" he said, writing invisible words on Athos' chest with his fingertip.

"I told you, I was confused. I'm no good with feelings." Athos turned his head away in embarrassment.

Bracing himself on an elbow, Porthos rested the palm of his hand on Athos' cheek and encouraged him to make eye contact. "Yeah, you are," he said. "We talk about all kinds of stuff."

“When we're here," said Athos. "This is my safe place."

Porthos grinned. “I think you'll find bed is a safe place for most people.”

“Home not bed.” Athos stroked an affectionate hand over Porthos' side. “When I was a child, La Fère was always happy." 

He lost himself for a moment and Porthos waited patiently for him to return. 

"Things changed when my parents died in a car accident. I took on the responsibility of looking after my younger brother and he resented me for it, hated me, I think.”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” said Porthos, although he had no experience of siblings. Only a slew of resentful and hateful cousins.

“I was married once,” said Athos slowly. “I thought I loved her, but then I came home from a tour of duty in Afghanistan and Thomas bragged to me that he’d been sleeping with her when I was away. Anne denied it and there was this huge fight. We were all drunk. We said things we didn't mean. Said things we did too, I suppose. I went off in a temper and when I came back the house was on fire. I honestly don’t know how it started. Maybe it _was_ my fault.”

“If it was your fault you’d have been in the nick for arson,” said Porthos.

“Thomas and Anne both died,” said Athos. “So I suppose it would have been manslaughter rather than arson.”

Porthos held on to him. Letting go wasn't an option.

“I was a wreck and my CO, Treville, was incredibly patient, but once my seven years were up I came out of the army,” Athos continued. "I was going to sell the estate, but I couldn't bring myself to do it, so I had this place built instead."

An industrial shaped box to house his feelings, thought Porthos. "And when you're not here on your own, you hide." The cold front of Lafere. The storm front of Athos. Personally, he liked the bloke in the middle best. 

"I'm not on my own now," said Athos with an uncertain smile. "And I'm not hiding."

"No, you're not," said Porthos, kissing him softly on the mouth. "You know, most of us have our masks. I certainly do."

Athos lifted both eyebrows in surprise. "I've always thought you were the most clear cut man I've ever met."

"What you see _is_ pretty much what you get," agreed Porthos. "But I'm not half as confident as I try and make out. It's a shield, the same as yours."

"But you have every reason to be confident," said Athos, reaching out to cup his face, a thumb brushing his cheekbone.

"Not when I was seven, I didn't," said Porthos."My mum had just died and my tosser of a father didn't want to know me, so I was pushed around to all my different relatives. They all pretended they wanted me, but none of them really did." Porthos leaned into Athos' touch. "It hurt," he admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of the past.

" _I_ want you," said Athos. "And I swear I won't hurt you again."

This place, for all its memories, brought out the best in them. The rebuild might have been ugly on the outside, but it had turned La Fère into a cathartic haven. "Thank you," said Porthos in a gruff voice, his emotions a mess. "Are we a proper thing then?" he added. It was spoken as a casual aside but it took a lot of guts to actually say it.

"I asked you out in front of d'Artagnan," said Athos. "I kissed you in front of the whole office. I've told you secrets that I've never told anyone. So, yes, I'd very much like us to be a thing." His eyes turned wary again. "If you'll have me, that is."

Porthos' heart lurched with happiness. "Oh, I'll have you, all right," he laughed. "I'll never stop bloody having you."

He pulled Athos onto him, kissing him over and over again, and as Athos rode him, head thrown back in pleasure, Porthos smiled with utter satisfaction. They'd both been waiting a long time for something good to come along and this was very very good indeed. 

"I suppose I should take back my notice," he said, pushing Athos to all fours.

Athos looked over his shoulder and grinned. "No need," he said. "I shredded your letter of resignation ages ago."

"You arrogant git," laughed Porthos, punishing him for his bad behaviour with some seriously hard strokes.

"Had to be done." 

Athos reared back and Porthos trapped him with an arm about his waist and a hand gripping the base of his cock. "Gonna make you pay," he growled, his teeth scraping the pulse point beneath Athos' ear until he was humming with need. "Make you beg me to let you come, all bloody night."

\---

After a month of to-ing and fro-ing, Athos asked Porthos to move in with him. "It'll save on train fares," he said with a mischievous grin that was seen much more frequently nowadays.

"And that's the only reason I'm going to say yes," said Porthos, looking up from where he was situated between Athos' legs. "It has nothing to do with the gorgeous noises you make when I suck you off." He resumed the blowjob and the conversation dwindled into sound effects.

"Mmm," said Athos, his fingers twisting into Porthos' curls as he edged closer. "Mmmyeahsogood."

"How much of my stuff can we fit into your car?" Porthos looked up again. "Maybe we should hire a van."

"I don't know. I don't care," moaned Athos. "Porthos, _please_."

"But I have a lot of clothes," said Porthos. "And your Porsche has no boot space."

"Porthos! Finish what you started."

"It's your fault," said Porthos. "You distracted me." Moving was a complicated process and there was a lot of planning to be done, but the pleading look in those soft green eyes was too much and he took pity, swirling his tongue around the crown and throating Athos, then stroking him off with a firm grip until he was crying out in absolute pleasure. "Can I fuck you?" he asked when Athos crawled limp and sated into his arms. "You're a dream when you're like this."

Athos nodded sleepily, locking himself around Porthos' body like a sloth on a branch and sighing with pleasure as Porthos took him.

There was nothing in life that could ever come close to competing with this. Athos, in his post climax state, was sweet and malleable, tender with his kisses and smiles, loving with his words. 

"This is better than anything," said Porthos as he fucked deep into him. 

"Better than drugs." Athos smiled up at Porthos, his prevailing warm front now permanently in place.

Porthos kissed him with unmitigated delight. "Even better than a full house at poker," he said. It was his highest compliment and one he didn't give out lightly.

\---

When Porthos told Aramis that he was moving in with Athos, his best friend took the news much better than expected.

"That's fantastic," he said as he helped him pack DVD's into a cardboard box. "I'm really pleased for you both."

"I'll leave you the PlayStation," said Porthos.

"Thanks." Aramis grinned. "That's really kind seeing as Athos has a games room and it's mine anyway."

Porthos was surprised. He'd been living in the flat for so long now that everything felt like his. "I'll give you my games then."

They spent the rest of the afternoon sharing out stuff as if they were going through an amicable divorce, with Athos, the new lover, grumbling as he was forced to carry boxes and cases out to the rental van.

"This entire bag is full of shirts," he said in horror. "Who on earth needs so many shirts?" 

"I do, so shut up and get on with it," said Porthos, kissing him on his frown lines. 

Once the Transit was packed and there was nothing left to do but say goodbye, Aramis launched himself at Porthos for a hug. "I'm going to miss you," he said.

"You _will_ be okay for money until you find a new flatmate?" asked Porthos.

Aramis looked sheepish. "To be honest, I already have someone in mind." He blushed. "And we're going to need the space."

"Go on," said Porthos, stepping back then folding his arms, wondering what mess Aramis had got himself into this time.

"I may have accidentally impregnated Louis' wife Anne," confessed Aramis in a blur of words. "But it's all right because she and I are madly in love with each other." He paused. "Porthos, I'm going to have a baby. I'm so happy."

There were tears of joy leaking everywhere as the two men clung to each other. 

"You'll be a great dad," said Porthos.

"And you'll be an amazing uncle."

Athos leant against the doorframe and shook his head in amused despair. "Please, gentlemen, enough. Soon you'll be knitting blankets and throwing baby showers."

"Cynic," growled Porthos. "Be happy for the man."

"I'm happily imagining the look on Louis' face when he hears the news." Athos patted Aramis on the back and kissed his cheek. "Well done, my friend."

\---

With all Porthos' stuff now in situ and the keys to the Transit handed over to Aramis for the second leg of moving day, Athos and Porthos lounged exhausted by the pool. The rain was starting to fall in fat drops around them, the smell of petrichor heavy in the air, and Porthos, the happy chatterbox, was surprisingly lost for words.

"What shall we do for your birthday?" asked Athos. His eyes were heavy lidded from tiredness, but he'd never looked so content. "We could go to Venice. Or Florence. I love Florence." He smiled lazily. "If you like we could have a party for everyone -- work friends included."

"I just want to be here with you," said Porthos, watching the raindrops splash into the pool and trying to comprehend how one small photograph could have had such a huge impact on him. "This is the life."

"Our life, you mean," said Athos, catching hold of Porthos' hand to kiss each knuckle, then reeling him in for a long lasting hug. 

Porthos buried himself in Athos' neck and breathed deeply. Hidden beneath indian summer rain and sun warmed skin was the faint scent of a sea breeze. Once upon a time, it had brought to mind crisp business suits and ice cold eyes, but now it simply meant love.

Love? That was an entirely new concept to him. It felt nice. More than that, it felt right.

"What are we like?" he laughed, grabbing a half drunk bottle of Bollinger and pouring it over their naked bodies. After all, if they were going to be decadent for the rest of their lives, they may as well do it in style.


End file.
